Jeff Shaara and Michael Shaara: Three Novels of the Civil War: Gods and Generals, the Killer Angels, the Last Full Measure

by Jeff Shaara

  “There’s a few more.”

  Hancock looked across, saw gray-clad troops at what had been a bridge crossing, burned timbers now poking at angles out of the water. There was a shot, then two more, and Hancock turned around and watched the column. The men did not break ranks, kept up the smooth march, and now a small squad of skirmishers formed along the bank, fired back across at the rebel troops, and they quickly vanished.

  “I wonder if Lee knows by now.”

  Hancock looked at Couch, said, “I expect he does. I heard earlier, a report of some cavalry watching us. Probably Stuart’s men. They’re keeping an eye on us.”

  “I have to admit,” Couch said, “I think this might work. If we can get across the river quickly, move down toward Richmond . . . Lee will have a problem.”

  Hancock thought of Lee, tried to form a picture, had only seen him once since Mexico, at a party in Washington. He was a quiet Southern gentleman, graceful and proper, and he had given Mira some advice, had told her to go with her husband to California, to keep the family together. It was a brief conversation, but there was a quiet sincerity to the man that had caught Hancock’s attention, and the advice had an impact on Mira as well. She had not told him of her doubts about going to California, but revealed something in conversation to Lee, and Lee’s words carried a sadness, an awareness of what his own career as a soldier had cost him. Now, Hancock tried to see the face, wondered how Lee might have changed, what it was that made him such a good leader. So much has happened, he thought, we never could have known it would become this bloody insanity.

  He thought of Albert Sidney Johnston and their last night, the party at his home. Johnston had already pulled away before he left California, his loyalties had already made him cautious. He was the first to understand that he was to be the enemy, and now Johnston was dead. Mira had written him, relaying the story from the papers, a battle at a place called Shiloh. There will be more, he thought, more familiar names, and he tried to stop it, said to himself, Do not do this. But he could not avoid it, saw now the rugged face of Lew Armistead. He’d heard little about him, knew he had been with Longstreet in the Seven Days’ battles, but there was no real news. And he thought of Couch’s words: “We all have our jobs to do. And our job now is to move this big damned army as fast as we can, and outsmart Robert E. Lee.”

  From down the road a rider came up, saw the colors behind them, pulled his horse alongside and saluted. “General Couch, sir. I am Major Spaulding, of the Engineering Corps. I am to guide your column into position for the crossing.”

  Couch nodded, said, “Very good, Major. You anticipate any problems?”

  “Not at all, sir. The river is calm, and there appears to be little if any opposition on the other side. All we need are your pontoons, sir.”

  Couch looked at Hancock, puzzled, and said, “What pontoons, Major?”

  Spaulding laughed, tried to be part of the joke, said, “Why, General, we can’t send this army across the river without your pontoons.”

  Couch did not laugh, and Hancock saw the face of the engineer slowly change, the smile fading. “General, we have been waiting . . . we have orders from General Burnside to lay the pontoon bridges as soon as your corps arrives. I assumed, sir . . . you have them.”

  “Major, you had better look elsewhere. There are no pontoons with this column.”

  Spaulding’s red face, bitten by the cold air of the fast ride, now drained of color. “General, we have already checked. . . . General Burnside requested the pontoons be delivered over from Harper’s Ferry. The request went straight to Washington, to General Halleck. I heard him discussing it myself, sir. The pontoons were to be . . . were to arrive at the same time as your column. General Burnside was very plain on this, sir. I have my orders. I have to build a bridge.”

  Couch looked at Hancock, said, “General, you see any pontoons? Anybody in your division hiding any pontoons?” His voice began to rise, angry and without humor, and Hancock now understood. They would sit still again, the great power of this army would be held up one more time because something went wrong.

  Spaulding abruptly saluted, said, “General, if you please, I have to return to Falmouth.”

  “Of course, Major, go about your business. We will arrive shortly.”

  The man turned, sent mud spraying over them as his horse kicked away, and Hancock said, “So, we have no way to cross the river.”

  “No, General, of course not. The plan was a good one too.”

  “They may find them yet, sir. Hard to lose something as big as a pontoon train.”

  “Oh, we’ll find them, General. They’ll make their way to Falmouth eventually. They might even get us across the river in time to do some good. But I have a feeling, General . . . surely, you share it. You’ve been with this army long enough.” Couch stared ahead with dark eyes, and Hancock said nothing, now could see the small town, buildings, a church steeple, small neat houses, and to the right, down a long, steep embankment, the wide river, and across it, Fredericksburg.

  IT SNOWED throughout the night, slow and steady, and early in the morning when he left his tent, the ground was covered with a thin white blanket. He walked through the camp, felt the cold, knew winter had yet to really show itself, that this army was preparing to move in what might be the worst conditions imaginable.

  It had been two weeks, and the pontoons had still not come. The word came from Burnside to just sit and wait. Couch had gone to headquarters every day, meetings and informal gatherings of the higher ranks, but Burnside was adamant: They would cross the river at this place. The missing pontoons were simply an inconvenience.

  Hancock walked downhill now, toward the river. He saw a thin glaze on the water, the first signs of ice, thought, If we wait long enough, we can walk across. He felt the ground soften, slippery mud under the thin layer of snow, and he backed away, thinking, Don’t fall into that mess this morning. Mighty damned uncomfortable. He eased along the bank, looked across to the larger town of Fredericksburg, saw a long hill behind, stretching down to the left. The hill had the same layer of snow, and he stopped, admired it as he would a painting, a beautiful scene. Church spires rose sharply above the town, and the riverfront buildings were packed together in a neat row. He guessed at the distance, three hundred yards, maybe less.

  Above him, upriver, there was some rough water, a few rocks breaking the smooth flow. He stopped, saw something moving among the rocks, waited, and now he could see. It was a cow.

  Several more cows moved into the water on the far side, breaking through the thin ice as they moved out into the middle of the river. The first one had reached the near bank, climbed up through the black mud, disappeared into thick grass and short trees. He watched the others, watched the depth of the water, saw they did not go down more than three feet, and he turned, ran back up through the snow, toward the headquarters of General Couch.

  Couch was eating breakfast, a pile of steaming hotcakes, and Hancock caught the smell, the butter, felt a hungry turn in his stomach. Couch watched him approach, saw the look, said, “Ah, General, news travels fast I see. A gift, from a local farmer . . . white flour and butter, and even a few eggs. No need to hurry, there’s plenty. Join me, please.”

  Hancock stopped at the table, was out of breath, said, “No, oh no, sir . . . that’s not why . . . sir, we can cross the river. Upstream, a quarter mile. It’s shallow enough to ford.”

  Couch stuffed a forkful of hotcakes into his mouth, syrup dripping down his chin. He stared at Hancock, swallowed hard, said, “Ford the river? It’s a long way across, General, and it’s damned cold. You sure it’s shallow?”

  “Sir, I just watched a herd of cattle cross the entire way, no more than three feet deep. We can have the whole corps across by tonight.”

  Couch stood, glanced down at the hotcakes, looked over to a waiting aide and said, “Enjoy these, Captain,” and the man leapt forward, picked up the fork and attacked the plate without sitting down.

  Hancoc
k followed Couch away from the table and the smells, and they walked quickly toward the grand house, the stately home overlooking the river that had once belonged to the family of George Washington. It was Sumner’s headquarters.

  Guards saluted as they passed, and Hancock glanced around the yard, saw vast gardens, vine-covered walkways, brown stems peeking out through the snow. They entered the house, and Hancock caught the strong smell of cigar smoke. Standing in the middle of the main living room, among a cluster of clean blue coats, was General Burnside.

  Burnside was the only one wearing a hat, tall black felt with a wide brim, and from underneath, his thick whiskers washed down the sides of his round face. He turned toward the opening door, smiling, and Couch said, “Excuse us, General, we did not know you were here. We came to see General Sumner. General Hancock has some information you may find useful.”

  Burnside looked at Hancock, held out his hand, said, “Yes, General Hancock, a pleasure. Please, gentlemen, let’s go this way. . . . I just left General Sumner in his office.”

  They moved away from the larger crowd, and Hancock saw civilians now, men with pads of paper: reporters. They passed into a smaller sitting room, were alone now, and Burnside peered around the corner of what had been a bedroom, said, “General Sumner? We have visitors.”

  Sumner stood, seemed annoyed at the interruption, and they crowded into the small room. It was dark, because Sumner had closed the curtains, and there was only one other chair, which Burnside offered to Couch.

  “No, General, please, you are in command here.”

  Burnside nodded, smiling, said, “Quite right, quite right,” and sat in the chair.

  Sumner looked up at the other two, said, “What is it, Couch?”

  “Sir, General Hancock reports that it is possible to ford the river, upstream a short distance. The crossing appears to be a fairly simple one. With your permission, we could begin moving the men right away.”

  Sumner stared at Couch with no expression, and Burnside chuckled quietly, said, “General Hancock, I certainly appreciate your efforts at reconnaissance, but that possibility has been considered and rejected. The pontoons will be here at any time, and then we will be able to not only send the men across, but the wagons and supplies as well. It would be foolhardy to send the men without the wagons.”

  There was a silent pause, and Hancock said, “Excuse me, General, but am I correct in my observation that there is little force opposing us across the river?”

  “Yes, General, you are correct. As I have planned, we have caught old Bobby Lee by surprise.”

  “Well, then, sir, if I may suggest . . . it is possible that General Lee is moving this way. Certainly he is aware of our intentions. If we were able to occupy the town, it would make our job much easier when the bridges do arrive, sir.”

  Sumner grunted, and Hancock looked at the old face, and there was still no expression. Burnside said, “General, that’s a bit risky, I’m afraid. Those men could be cut off. This weather . . . the river is already rising a bit. It will be best, I assure you, if we wait until the entire army can proceed across. I am not worried about General Lee. He will not move against such a large and formidable force as we have here.” He paused, laughed, pleased with himself. “I do not share General McClellan’s tendency to inflate the enemy’s strengths. We have General Lee just where we want him.”

  Hancock said nothing, looked again at Sumner, who was staring at Burnside with a look that said they had already had this conversation. Beside him, Couch began to shuffle, and Hancock heard a deep breath come from the small man.

  Couch said, “General Burnside, if we cannot cross the river very soon, I am confident that General Lee will make every effort to impede our movement to do so. I feel fairly certain that he will also make great efforts to prevent us from moving toward Richmond. We do not know the disposition of General Jackson’s forces, and we could find them on our flanks if we move on toward Richmond prematurely. It is important, sir, that we make some attempt to gain even a small advantage by occupying the town, and possibly the heights beyond. Allow me, sir, to send at least General Hancock’s division across the river. Surely, they can carry enough supplies with them, and the artillery from this side can protect them from any aggression by Lee—”

  Burnside raised his hand, cutting him off, still smiled. “Gentlemen, please, we have beaten this to death. We will cross the river when the bridges arrive, and not before. You must understand, I do not have the luxury of deviating from the larger plan. The President has approved my strategy, and I will stick to it. Once this army is across the river, I assure you, General Lee will have little chance to do any more than nip at our heels as we move down to Richmond. Now, if you please, gentlemen, my presence is required outside.”

  Burnside stood, did not wait for salutes, was quickly gone. Sumner leaned back in his chair, rubbed at tired eyes, said, “Someone should tell him he can deviate from any plan he chooses. I’ve already done all the talking I can. This is his operation, and he means to make it work.”

  Couch pulled at Hancock’s arm, moved toward the door, said, “Let’s hope, General, that we get those bridges soon.”

  Outside, the growing bite of the November wind rolled down the long valley of the river. Behind the hills around the headquarters, great fields of troops built fires from whatever wood they could find, passed the time huddled together in tents, and most now expected they would sit here through the winter, that another opportunity had been missed, and so the work began again on the construction of winter quarters. Far upstream, long miles away, teams of horses pulled lines of heavy wagons, bringing the pontoons down the soft roads toward the army.

  The two men walked out from the grand old mansion, down the short steps, and Hancock stopped, stared out across the river, to the hills that lay beyond the peaceful town, the pleasant scene he had admired that morning. We should be over there, on those hills, he thought. Couch was watching him, turned to see where Hancock was focused, and started to say something but let it go and left Hancock alone. Turning away, he moved back to his headquarters.

  To the west, far behind the hills, the clouds began to grow darker. Another winter storm was moving toward them, more snow, and Hancock pulled at his coat, saw Couch moving away, down the slope. He thought again of the hotcakes, and began the walk back to his camp.

  NOW, BEHIND those hills, behind the peaceful town, out of sight of the men in blue, there was movement, a steady stream of men in ragged clothes and worn coats, horses and wagons and flags, moving up the sides of the hills, spreading along the ridges covered by the clean snow. They began to dig, long trenches and shallow artillery pits, and now one man rode to the top of the hill, sitting on a tall gray horse, and looked out across the river, toward the high bank, to the place where the generals had just met, the grand old house that had belonged to George Washington, and so had belonged to the family of his wife. Lee had arrived.

  PART

  THREE

  27. LEE

  November 1862

  HE STRAIGHTENED his stiff legs, stood high in the stirrups, the big gray horse not moving under him. The hill around him was mostly bare. A few trees broke the clean snow, and in front of him the slope was steep, dropping away toward the town. He could see clearly, see it all, the wide gap of open land the attackers would have to cross, broken only by a few fences, and one deep canal, which would disrupt any quick advance of troops. Fredericksburg itself was spread out against the edge of the river, and he knew he would not hold it, it had no value to the army, but even if he had wanted to, the Federal cannon were massed across the river, on top of the long rise known as Stafford Heights, perched high above the river, and so would control any movement in the town and make any defense there impossible. No, it was back here, these hills. He looked around, saw the troops working, dirt and snow flying, a few trees felled and moved into place. The cannon had arrived now, and the shallow pits prepared, and his own guns were moving into position. They too would co
ntrol the ground, the open fields the Federal troops would have to cross to reach them. He looked back to that ground, the flat grassy plain, saw a few small houses, knew they would offer little protection.

  Across the Rappahannock, on the far hills, he saw the camps, the masses of blue, and could see some movement, though not much detail. The heights were nearly a mile away, and the only really clear image was the house, the mansion, the ancestral home of George Washington. He glanced that way, did not want to look at it, avoided it, knew that again this war had taken something from him. He looked down, patted Traveller’s neck, said a small prayer: Please, don’t destroy this one too. He knew it was not just the war, that Mary’s health was failing for reasons beyond what he was doing now, but he could not help the feeling that if this were over . . . if they were at home and he could be with her, she would be better. He realized he did not even know where she was these days, somewhere in Richmond, safe, for now. But across the river from him sat another piece of her, another symbol of loss, and he could not look at it, knew that there were other matters at hand.

  He focused again, looked back to the open ground at the base of his hill, saw straight down to a deep road bed, a long stone wall that ran along the base of the hill. Surely, he thought, they will not do it here, not here. He looked to his right, to the south, along the ridge of the hills, saw his men working far into the distance, digging in. This is too . . . perfect. He felt a nagging sense of alarm: No, it will not happen here. Burnside is not a fool. But . . . there they sit, across the river, a great assembled force, and they are not moving.

  The Federal Army had marched with uncharacteristic speed, had surprised him, slipping down the river this far. He hadn’t expected the fight to be here, had waited for them to come at him from farther upriver, crossing at the shallow fords to the north. But Stuart followed their movement, the advance down to Falmouth, watched them all along the way, and they continued to move south, reaching the hills across from Fredericksburg a full day before Lee could move any troops in their direction. Lee then quickly brought Longstreet’s army to these hills, and now Jackson had been recalled from Winchester, from the valley, and was on the march. Everything pointed to one conclusion: Burnside’s plan was to cross here, he would fight here. And we have the good ground, Lee thought. Longstreet’s army had grown to nearly forty thousand men, its greatest strength of the war. But Burnside had nearly three times that, and Lee knew that if they moved quickly, came across the river soon, even the good ground would not be enough. Jackson was on his way, with another thirty-five thousand, and if he arrived in time, it would be the largest force Lee had yet commanded, but Jackson had been nearly 150 miles away.